The Haunting Hand, page 11
Margot watched Stoner throw a swift, appraising look over the room. He turned to her saying:
“You’ve left all your own things down here, haven’t you?”
“Everything but my personal effects. It seemed best that way.”
Stoner addressed the cop with genial familiarity.
“Mind if I give this place the once over? Here, have one?” He gave the cop a fat cigar. “I’ll have a squint behind the bed first off the bat, I guess.”
Margot couldn’t repress a smile of vast amusement, seeing the heavy bulk that was Stoner, get down on all fours and look under the bed. He got to his feet and pulled out the brass bed. Then again he got down on the floor, looked at the walls and along the baseboard. He had the air of doing all this as a matter of form, because all the rest had done the same thing. He turned to Margot with a wave of his arm at the bed, then said, as he pushed the bed back in place:
“Just eliminating. Have to look at every detail of course, the way the rest of the Sherlocks have been doing. Now for something more to the point.”
He walked to the door leading to the roof-garden, then walked back to the bed, slowly pacing off the distance. Then he returned to the door, opened it and went out on the roof. Margot could see him gazing at the houses across the way, whose rear windows could be seen with curtains drawn back and bright lights shining. He re-entered the room and went to the window, looked out, then squatted down as he was accustomed to do when looking from certain angles at scenes he was about to have shot. He peered through his hands at the bed and at the floor beside the bed, and again he looked out of the window.
By that time the policeman was gaping in sheer astonishment at the antics of this strange man. Margot, not in the least impressed but wondering what Stoner was getting at, waited in silence. Then he walked to the bed and stood looking down at the rug.
“Show me exactly where you saw that light—where you saw the hand tap the light out.”
Margot showed him.
“Do you sleep with your shade up?”
“Yes, usually, so it won’t flap with the window open.”
“When you leaned over the side of the bed to look for the match you dropped, did you reach your arm over the side a ways before you saw the hand?”
Wondering what he had in his mind, but convinced now that he had something more than an idle curiosity, or a ruse to visit her against her will, Margot told him that so far as she remembered, she did stretch out her arm over the side of the bed before she saw the hand.
“Humph! I thought as much.” He grinned with satisfaction, and gave the policeman another cigar. “Now, Margot, I’ve got every reason for feeling sure of my little theory. Come over here a minute.” He walked to the window, opened it, and pointed across the way.
“See that house over there, directly in line with this window?”
“Yes,” said Margot, vaguely, standing behind him.
He turned, looking back at the bed.
“See that place on the rug where you saw the light? Right in a line with this window, isn’t it?”
Margot nodded, seeing that his comment was correct. A dim suspicion of what he had in mind, had come to her, and with it a slight quickening of interest in what more he had to say.
“Well, go on. What’s the answer?”
“My dear young lady, not here. In your present abode, if you don’t mind.”
Simple and natural of course. No reason why he should air his theory, good or bad, before the policeman. Again Margot’s reason made it impossible for her to refuse his request. As the door closed on them, and he sat once more in her easy chair, he smiled, a long, slow smile of utter contentment.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” she said with a little laugh.
“Now listen carefully. Anyone standing at the window of that floor in that house I pointed out to you, could flash a light straight into your room. With the clever use of a burning-glass, a spot from a calcium light backed by a reflector could be made to move about and do queer stunts on that rug where the policeman saw the light. You were half asleep you said, and it all happened in a jiffy. I’ve seen queer things done with a mirror.”
She listened, amazed at the ingenuity of his theory.
“But the arm and hand. Calcium light and a burning-glass can do a good deal, but they can’t manufacture hands and arms.”
“Why, my dear girl, I’m surprised at you. You’re too smart to ask such a question! You put your arm over the side of the bed, to reach for the match. Well, it’s so simple it’s funny! The light and the mirror threw the reflection of your own arm and hand on the rug.”
“But,” Margot gasped, half convinced. “I saw a hand tap the match.”
“Sure you did. You saw your own hand tap that match. Don’t you understand? You saw an apparently ghostly arm and hand on the floor. You were scared stiff, and you didn’t know after that what you did or didn’t do. Automatically you did the very thing you’d started out to do—put out the match. Of course you thought you saw another hand do it. Isn’t it clear?”
Margot almost thought it was, but she wasn’t quite sure.
“How about the hand and arm seen by Boyle?”
“Good Lord! That doesn’t need much explaining, seems to me. Case of superstitious fear. You’d told how you saw the hand, so when the calcium light flashed again—pleasant little practical joke, by the way—it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that Boyle imagined the same thing you saw, even to tapping out the light.”
The logic of the argument was evident, and the theory as to the calcium light and the mirror fairly reasonable. Margot felt sure of that. But deep down in her consciousness was a strange conviction, and it grew as she listened to Stoner and watched his face. It was the conviction that his theory was actually false, that Stoner knew it was false, and that for some reason too obscure to imagine, he was intent upon convincing her of its validity. The queer sensation of distrust of the man was stronger than ever before.
She knew what she must do. She must not let him guess her distrust of him—foundless as it actually was—nor let him realize that every instinct she possessed was ranged against the sincerity or plausibility of his amazing theory. So she smiled sweetly and said:
“You’re tremendously clever, Mr. Stoner. I’d never have thought of such a thing in a thousand years. I shall certainly follow up your theory. It will be easy to find out who lives in that house and in that apartment, and look into the matter of the calcium light.”
“Good Lord, you wouldn’t be so foolish. You don’t suppose anyone given to practical jokes like that is going to admit it. You’d never find out or prove a thing. My only idea in telling you about it is to help you eliminate other theories that may lead you into all sorts of trouble and waste of time.”
“I see,” she said softly, watching his face through the smoke from her parted lips, her eyes half closed. “And of course, even if we did succeed in proving that the lights were a practical joke, and even if I were convinced that I saw my own hand put out the match, in a moment of hysteria, that wouldn’t any of it explain the entrance into my room by way of the roof, of Miss Stella Ball, would it, Mr. Stoner?”
His thick lips pouted. His eyes glowered at her.
“You don’t think much of my theory, after all, do you?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I think it’s a marvelous theory, and I think it ought to be given due consideration. But I think that there are other things to consider also.”
“What, for instance?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “I’ve still got a little theory of my own about Stella Ball being in some way connected with what I saw.”
“Ridiculous!” His exclamation was almost savage in its disgust. “What in the name of God could she have to do with it—a common midnight marauder—a little sneak thief!”
“Well, that’s all got to be proved, Mr. Stoner.”
“Do you mean to say,” he stared at her, “that you persist in going on with this silly investigation?”
Quickly she decided to lie to him.
“Well, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it would be a waste of time, and do me harm. Perhaps I’d better take your advice, Mr. Stoner.”
She hadn’t imagined what her sudden meekness would bring forth. He sprang to his feet, went toward her with outstretched arms and bent over her murmuring:
“You’re a darling. You do care a little for me, don’t you?”
Margot got to her feet without confusion or haste. She stepped out of his reach and said quietly:
“Mr. Stoner, you must really understand that I don’t permit any man to come to my room alone to make love to me. I let you in because you had something important to tell me. Now please leave this love business out of it altogether.”
For a moment he stood still looking at her. Then he said:
“Look here, Margot! Is this stuff about being alone in your room, the truth, or are you stalling because you won’t let me make love to you here or anywhere else?”
She hesitated; “Let’s talk about that some other time,” she said gently.
“No! You’ll tell me here and now. Valery comes to your room, doesn’t he! I’m crazy about you, girl. I can’t stand it, I tell you.”
There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. No matter what he had come for, nor what his motives might be for elaborating the theory about the lights, she had now to deal with a man whose passions were something to be reckoned with. She moved a step farther away from him. It was an unwise move. Suddenly, and without warning, he sprang across the space between them, seized her, and crushed her in his big arms. She struggled, but he was stronger than she, and he pinned her arms to her sides, and kissed her with furious, pent-up desire; kissed her mouth, her throat, her shoulder, all the time drawing her over to the couch against the wall.
Margot would not scream. It would be a senseless thing to do. With all her rage and strength she fought him. She tore one hand free and with all her force struck him across the mouth. The pain of the blow was nothing, but the fact that she would strike him seemed to change the current of his passion. He let her go and stood looking at her, wiping the blood from his cut lips with his handkerchief.
“Some men,” he said slowly, “like to be hit and even bitten by a woman when she’s angry. I don’t, not when it’s clear that the woman hasn’t any use for me. I’m through trying to make love to you, Miss Margot Anstruther. And I’m through with a few other things too.”
“You had no right to force your kisses on me,” she said quietly.
“Let that pass. I’ll give you one more chance. Will you or will you not, try to like me and promise to marry me later on?”
“Good Heavens, no!” she said, with so much sincerity that it was like a dash of cold water in his face. He stared angrily, then he said:
“Just one thing more. Will you or will you not, drop this damn foolishness about this mystery stuff?”
“I will not drop it,” she said with quiet defiance.
He walked to where he had thrown his hat and coat, and picked them up. Then he stood glowering at her across the room.
“That’s all, then. Consider yourself fired from the Superfilm Company. And Valery will find a notice for himself to-morrow morning. I’m damn sorry I gave you the job that day, instead of Lulu.”
“You had your good reasons for that, Mr. Stoner.” Before he could speak, she added quickly: “Why punish Gene for what I’ve done?”
“Because I can get at you through him. Also because I’m sick of the very sight of him. But any time you change your mind about marrying me, just let me know. You’ll get your job back if you do.”
With that he stalked out of the room.
For a long time after Margot put out her light, she lay in the darkness thinking. Strange and ingenious that theory of Stoner’s, but far stranger still the motive under the theory. She knew now, she felt it deeply, that he had some motive, other than his desire to force her to drop the case. At least—her thoughts grew a little confused as she grew less wakeful—it wasn’t like that exactly. His motive for advancing the theory was obviously to make her drop her theories, and the motive back of that was what she couldn’t fathom. Well—if for a moment she had been intrigued by Stoner’s theory, even to the point of taking it seriously, she had swung back to a rational contemplation of him and his theories. As to her own, they were something to take up with Gene the next day. Poor Gene! It was a shame. But he’d get a job with some other company, and so would she. But not till she’d solved the mystery of the arm that tapped the lighted match—the arm that most positively was not her own.
As on the night before, her last waking memory was of those strange, pale eyes of Stoner’s, looking at her through a mist of hidden thought and motive and desire.
CHAPTER X
A WITNESS FROM THE DEAD
A long night because of long, long thoughts, then a few hours of sleep and then waking, to see the sun shining through her window. Margot wondered, as she examined her face in the two foot mirror, just how many more sleepless nights she could stand without showing the effects of it. Well, at least she didn’t have to rush over to the studio and be irritated by Stoner. It was a shame of course, that she was the cause of Gene being fired, for Stoner would undoubtedly put as many spokes in Gene’s wheel as possible. But he already had the reputation of being a clever camera man, and he’d make another good connection in spite of Stoner.
As to herself, Margot worried not at all. She was sorry to leave the charming “Conchita” to the mercy of some substitute who might not understand her passionate Latin temperament as well as she—Margot—understood it, but, oh, what did it all matter! The reflection of herself as a passionate Spanish girl made Margot grin in delighted mockery of her own conception. Of course—she had no doubt about it—she was quite capable of feeling intensely when the right man and the right hour should come along, but Spanish girls didn’t have to have the scene so carefully laid. Was it that American women were really cold, or that Spanish women were less fastidious? As to dear old Gene, was he the right one, and was she waiting only for the hour to strike?
She had reached that point in her reflections, over her coffee and rolls, in her room, when she was called to the telephone.
As she heard Gene’s voice over the wire, she wondered if it were a case of thought transference. That very moment as he was calling her, she was thinking intently about him.
“Hello, that you, Margot? Say, there’s the devil to pay out here. I’m calling from Astoria. I’ve been given the sack and not a reason offered. And the report out here is that you’ve had the same dirty deal. Is it true?”
She told him it was, and asked him to come to her house as soon as possible; that she had much to tell him, and something for him to do. His voice sounded more cheerful when he told her that he’d be right over as quick as he could make train connections.
When Gene arrived she gave him both hands and reached her face up for his kiss. He gave it eagerly enough, his eyes glowing with joy at the sight and touch of her. He tried to take her in his arms, but she held him back and smiled an entreaty that he be patient with her.
“We’ve such a lot to talk about, dear, and so much to do. I promise, Gene, that just as soon as we clear up the mystery of that old room of mine, I’ll take your love-making seriously, or else—” She hesitated, striving to be fair and honest with him.
“Or else you’ll cut out the love-making altogether, is that it, Margot?”
“Yes, old dear, that’s what I meant, but don’t get humped about it. Plenty of other bridges to cross first. Who knows, I may discover that I’m desperately in love with you, when I get all the debris out of my mind collected there in the last few days.”
Her mood was lightening. Gene always cheered her up. Good sign, she thought, but she refrained from calling his attention to it. Then she told him of Stoner’s unexpected call the previous evening. Before she could expatiate on his avowed reason for coming, Gene exploded.
“So that was his game, keeping me at work in the studio, and changing me to another unit! I thought it was queer, but I was too dense to connect it with you, Margot.”
“No denser than I was. It never occurred to me till after he’d gone. As a matter of fact, he kept my brain too busy with his remarkable theories, until just before he left, and then he kept me too busy.”
Gene stared at her, uncomprehending. She laughed at his expression, then she frowned, remembering with an access of disgust, Stoner’s physical attempt to force her hand.
“See here, Gene, if he hadn’t fired you I’d not dream of telling you just what happened last night. But as you’re no longer under his heel it doesn’t matter what you know. I’ll tell you about my personal encounter with him first. That’ll clear the deck for the rest of it, which is really the only interesting thing about last evening.”
She described Stoner’s attack upon her, his love-making, and his cold fury when she struck him across the mouth. Gene listened with burning eyes and twitching lips, striding up and down the room as Margot talkea.
“So that’s that, and a jolly good riddance so far as I’m concerned. I was getting awfully fed-up with his overbearing ways. Until recently I didn’t dislike Stoner. Of course I could never have been fond of him, but I liked him—rather—until he antagonized me by his attitude regarding what occurred, and publicity, and all that. He’s interesting in a queer, mysterious way. He’s got me guessing as to his real motives for working up his elaborate theory and coming here with it. There’s something I can’t reach with my mind, although my imagination plays with it continually.”
She described to Gene the visit to the “haunted” room, and Stoner’s antics, which filled the policeman with wondering awe, and made Margot want to laugh, up to the moment when he explained his theory.
